


Dulce Bellum Inexpertis

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Everyone!, BAMF John, BAMF Sherlock, Canonical Character Death, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Season 3 AU, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I left John with this … with this … thing. I left him behind, thinking he was safe...</i><br/> <br/>Sherlock returns to London to a world he barely recognizes. Worse, to a world that barely recognizes him and wants him no longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. House of Cards

**Brest, France**

Sherlock Holmes studied the drug-fueled ramblings of one Pierre Lamont, former Cypriot money launderer for Moriarty, currently based out of Marseilles. Even with all the bizarre sexual imagery, Sherlock was able to decipher enough to have fear build up in his blood until he felt overwhelmed. 

“This has to be a mistake,” he barked after shoving Lamont’s confession back into Agent Samuel Enders’ bloodied hands.

Enders shook his head. “No, the man is practically swimming in heroin, but he was lucid enough.”

His calm statement made Sherlock want to slam Enders repeatedly onto the doorframe if only to rattle the seasoned veteran. “This means Moran is in London. That he was in London the last two years?”

Enders sighed wearily. “Yes. The bastard never left. More importantly is the fact that we did the dirty work for him.”

Greenfield, a field agent handpicked by Mycroft, added, “Makes sense. The man was a soldier. And a soldier, especially a well-trained one, never lets an opportunity go by. It’s like eating and sleeping: do it while you can because only God knows when you get another chance.”

Sherlock took a moment to digest the information and the men’s opinions. “He wanted to excise the fat off of Moriarty’s web. And since he was a soldier, it made sense to focus on the illegal arms trading.”

“Which was why he did nothing when we brought down the drug rings and the human traffickers,” Enders stated flatly. “The bastard probably laughed his head off, watching us.”

“Does he know I’m alive?” Sherlock asked as he pulled out his phone. He was forced to wait for it to go through the various encryption process before launching the necessary software.

Enders looked at his blood-soaked fingers. “Lamont didn’t know. But if Moran is smart as I think - he probably suspects.”

“London,” Sherlock whispered hoarsely. “I need to go to London now.”

“Why?” Enders asked.

“The anniversary of my fall … it’s this weekend. If Moran thinks I’m alive, he’ll go after John.”

“There’s no way you can know that,” Greenfield protested. “And we still have to find the triggers!”

“Think!” Sherlock rounded on his partner. “The two we had tracked were at Al Wajh and Puduchcheri. Both are port cities.”

“You think Moran’s squirreling the nuclear triggers in London? One of the busiest cities in the world?” Enders asked, flabbergasted. “Why would he do something like that?”

“Because London _is_ one of the busiest cities in the world. You can smuggle anything through it if you have the right connections. I’ve caught many a criminal trying just that.”

Greenfield’s grim façade turned stony. “But why this weekend? Just because it’s the anniversary…”

“Because Lamont was using the alias of Nathaniel Dumas, who was most often partnered with Saint Bartholomew.”

“Bloody fuck,” Enders hissed.

“I need to get to London, but quietly. This…”

Greenfield moved so fast Enders had no time to dodge the killing blow. The sound of his neck snapping was unnaturally loud in the small office. But that split moment allowed Sherlock to prepare for himself for the fight. If it were two years ago Sherlock would’ve hesitated for a moment to assess the situation. But he’d taken lessons from John, and the two years of exile had drilled many ugly truths into Sherlock. Without hesitation, he let his hindbrain take over.

So, it was with a twist of his too-thin waist and a snap of his elbow that brought Greenfield to his knees, incapacitated as his throat had suddenly seized up from shock of the blow.

Sherlock took his knife and slid it expertly between the fourth and fifth rib, right into the heart. He held the body and gently laid it to rest. 

_I’m compromised. Mycroft is compromised,_ he thought hysterically. _This entire endeavour was doomed from the start!_

Sherlock looked down at the bloody note still in Enders' grasp.

“John…” he whispered in horror.

It took Sherlock an hour to get out of Brest in a stolen grocery truck. The Étretat police would later find the vehicle abandoned near the town borders, idling besides a major thoroughfare. The only other notable theft report was that of a missing fishing boat, but they didn’t think too much of it. Its captain, one Monsieur Henri Foss, was known to imbibe one or two before sunrise. And since they couldn’t find the man, the police assumed the drunk had taken out his boat without any crew.

So, the police department of the picturesque Étretat didn’t even bother filing a report, half hoping the bastard would die an accidental death while at sea. That way, Madame Foss would finally have peace and some recompense from the insurance companies for all the abuse she’d endured under her husband’s fists.

This went a long way in ensuring Sherlock reached the English shores undetected.

Sherlock anchored _Helené_ along with its unconscious captain in a dock surrounded by similar fishing vessels. It took him a precious hour to find a motorbike that had a full tank with its owner right next to it, sleeping off a carousing night.

By sunrise Sherlock was roaring his way to London; his heart thumping the same beat of John’s steadfast gait dogging his heels during one of their many chases throughout London and beyond her precious rivers.

Sherlock didn’t dare to think what it meant for Mycroft that his team had been so badly compromised. Sherlock would find John first. Only after squirreling Mrs. Hudson to safety would they contact Mycroft. He, in turn, would guarantee Lestrade’s wellbeing by personally ensconcing the man in their family estate.

Then … oh then, with John by his side Sherlock would hunt down the last remaining bullet in Moriarty’s arsenal: the deadliest bullet of all – one belonging to a sniper whose identity remained a mystery, even to him.

* * *

**London**

Dr. Sawyer was happy, unguardedly happy. John was going to spend what had to be the most horrid day of the year for him, with his coworkers. Instead of sitting in front of his friend’s tombstone like he’d done the past two years, John had agreed to a luncheon with Sarah and their coworkers to celebrate her engagement. 

Her fiancé was going to be late, but that was par for the course when Paul was involved. So, she had little worry as the table settled down with the first course and what was a very decent bottle of wine. Even John seemed genuinely relaxed if a bit tired, but that was to be expected. Sarah suspected he had very little sleep the entire week.

She couldn’t help but snigger as John touched his moustache again. Really, it was so horrid; she had no idea why John insisted on growing the atrocious thing. He had a wonderfully open face, and the blasted moustache made him look like a little boy trying to mimic his father.

“So, what is the bride going to wear for the wedding?” Jocelyn asked. “Something horrifically posh, I bet!”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I see no reason to buy something expensive that I will wear only once. Besides, I can use the money to make a decent offer at a flat we’ve been looking.”

John smiled. “If you need a hand with moving, I’ll be more than happy to help.”

For a moment Sarah felt like bursting into tears. Of course John would volunteer for something so labourious and tedious. Unlike many Londoners she knew, some who were sitting at this very table, John had little problem doing the dirty work necessary to make the cogs run smoother. 

“Thank you,” Sarah replied. “And you’ll definitely get a free meal for that!”

John’s laughter never came. Instead, blood drained from his face as his mouth dropped open. For a moment Sarah thought he was about to have a heart attack. Then, she followed his gaze to a stranger rushing towards their table. Sarah couldn’t understand why she felt confusion as the vagrant came to a violent stop right in front of her.

The man was tall, thin to the point of worry, and sported red hair that seemed like it hadn’t seen a comb since the Thatcher regime. It was only when she studied the man’s eyes that a sharp sense of vertigo penetrated her confusion.

“Sherlock?” 

John’s thin voice jolted Sarah as if she’d been slapped. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “That’s not possible.”

John stood up, shoving his chair aside. “Sherlock?” he said in a stronger voice.

“John,” the familiar baritone answered. “You’re in grave…”

Sarah punched as hard as she could, sending Sherlock Bloody-Not-Dead Holmes careening to the left. With shocked outrage, Sarah screamed, “You bastard!”

The waitstaff, informed ahead of time that this was an engagement party, hovered about anxiously. Some probably wondering if the intruder was an ex-lover. 

John gave a high, worrying laugh and shook his head. “Thank you, Sarah…”

Sherlock straightened up, his eyes leveling a lethal gaze on Sarah. And were she a more cautious woman, Sarah would have cowed. As it was, the good doctor was gearing up for another swing when John placed a hand on her fist.

“It’s all right,” he said, still giggling like he’d gone mental. Which, in this case, would not have been out of the realm of possibility. “I … I need to clear my head.”

Sherlock watched John stumble outside onto a small patio, leaning against the metal railing. John’s hands were visibly trembling as he took great gulps of London air, shaking his head as if trying to dislodge an ugly image from his mind.

“He’s in danger,” Sherlock stated as if he were king, and the diners his subjects. “There…”

Sarah was only half listening to Sherlock as something bizarre had caught her attention. A man in a garish mask breezily walked up to John. Then, without any warning, he pulled out a gun and fired two shots right at John.

Screams erupted, tableware crashed and plates shattered as people dove for cover. Sherlock, on the other hand, stood still. His eyes wide in horror as John slowly slid down to the ground, one hand covering his chest.

The shooter fully turned to face the restaurant crowd and Sarah finally recognized the mask. It was a popular item right after Sherlock has supposedly committed suicide. The garish death's head was originally sold to mock him, but instead, was used by his supporters to show their unity for the disgraced detective and his friend.

The shooter waved his gun hand in a greeting and garbled out, “Welcome back!”

He then fired off one shot, which shattered the glass wall. Before he could pull the trigger again, John rolled over, knocking him to the ground. The two began wrestling, a violent and bloody act of desperation.

John’s cry of pain galvanized Sherlock. He sprinted towards John who managed to grab the gun hand and yanked it away from the crowd. In retaliation the shooter pulled back, but he’d overcompensated and the two men spun right onto the railing, which was only high as John’s waist. The gunman’s momentum kept them moving over the barricade.

Sherlock was almost on top of them; his thin fingers brushing against John’s woolen jacket. But his grasp was too weak and Sherlock couldn’t get a decent hold. 

The struggling men went over and hit the Thames with an almighty splash.

Sherlock was about to leap over when a bystander grabbed him, pulling him back.

“No! Get off of me! Get off!” Sherlock roared, furiously struggling. So strong was he that two more people had to grab him.

By the time the police arrived, six people were holding onto Sherlock, who was still struggling to reach the river, and his friend.


	2. The Soldier

Sarah watched the DI actually snarl as a stranger approached the ambulance. Sherlock was perched on the back, practically catatonic as the emergency medics went over his wounds. From where Sarah was standing she could see the detective was covered with bruises and cuts, but the man showed absolutely no pain whatsoever as he was treated.

Sarah felt a frisson of fear. When she’d first met Sherlock Holmes she’d thought he had a form of undiagnosed autism. It wasn’t until later, after talking with John that she’d realized the man wasn’t autistic: he was just a massive berk who didn’t care for social niceties.

And yet, it was this utter bastard that John formed the deepest friendship Sarah had ever witnessed. And it wasn’t a mistake, either. That particular friendship kept getting stronger as time went on, and Sarah had admitted at least to herself that she’d made a mistake regarding Sherlock’s feelings towards John.

Now, in spite of everything that had happened, she was more than convinced that Sherlock was not a sociopath or a monster. She’d witnessed the moment Sherlock shattered and it was obvious he felt everything, maybe too much.

The stranger said something to the detective that made the man even more enraged. After laying out what looked like an unbridled diatribe, the DI finally stepped aside and let the suit grab Sherlock by his arms. It wasn’t until she saw their profiles that she realized the stranger had to be Sherlock’s brother. 

Sarah was glad that he had family to take care of him. Sherlock would need as much care as possible in the coming days.

* * *

Lestrade studied the Holmes brothers as they entered the sleek, black car. He then spotted Donovan approaching him.

“Dr. Watson?” she asked cautiously.

“We have the boats out,” Lestrade answered. “And they’re checking the garbage traps. The current’s so bloody strong. Maybe the river boys could figure out where … where,” Lestrade stopped and blinked back tears. “Fuck.”

Donovan closed her eyes. Her right hand hovered for a moment before dropping back to her side. “Do you think it was someone those two had pissed off?”

“I don’t doubt it. And it was pretty fucking grand gesture – coming here like that and opening fire. Which makes me believe Moriarty is involved somehow. I know he's dead, but there is a good chance that someone else has taken over the throne and decided to get rid … before … before John could cause any trouble for them.”

Donovan was taken back by what her boss was saying. “So, the new boss figured out that Sherlock was alive? And waited for the right moment to inflict maximum amount of damage?”

“You realize that also means the bastard took Sherlock for a ride,” Lestrade added. “Yeah, I know. Scary thought, isn’t it?”

Suddenly there was a shout. Lestrade located the noise and peered over the railing.

A constable was waving his arms, balanced precariously on the bow of a Met trawler. “They found a body!”

Lestrade took a deep breath and let it out with a full body shudder. “God, I hate this.”

Donovan wordlessly joined him as the DI wove his way down the staircase that led to the embankment. And she remained wisely quiet as their boat speedily made its way to the body that had been fished out of the water.

* * *

“Sherlock,” Mycroft began softly. “What has happened?”

“We’re compromised,” Sherlock answered dully. “Greenfield wasn’t ours, Mycroft. When this is over, I demand to personally meet the operative who does the background checks. I would like to have a word with the incompetent fuck responsible for allowing Moran’s lackey into the operation.”

Mycroft winced as if Sherlock’s swearing had actually hurt him. “I can assure you…”

“Greenfield snapped Enders’ spine and tried to slit my throat when we started discussing Moran’s whereabouts,” Sherlock stated coldly. “I can assure you: he wasn’t yours, ours, or anyone who has remote interest in capturing Moran.”

“Why would Greenfield out himself then? Since he was so successful in fooling us?”

“Because of the nuclear triggers,” Sherlock answered. “When that subject was brought up, Greenfield reacted.”

Mycroft paled considerably. “And what was the discussion, exactly?”

“The triggers are with Moran, and he is here, in London.”

“Sherlock, do you understand what you’re saying?”

“Have you lost your hearing? Four nuclear triggers are now in London. Whether he plans to keep them or auction them off, I do not know.”

“I must inform the Prime Minister about this,” Mycroft said. 

“You do that,” Sherlock said, standing up. “I need to see my contacts.”

“Your Homeless Network?”

Sherlock didn’t bother responding. Instead, he dug into the satchel Mycroft had stored for him and pulled out ratty clothing and boots that seemed to be made mostly out of duct tape.

“Sherlock, what are you going to do?” Mycroft prompted gently.

“Since the sudden upswing in gun-related crimes, the Network has been feeding me constant information. If anything, they are more afraid than the police about the influx of firearms into London.”

“I see,” Mycroft said. “What do you want to do about Lestrade? The news of your sudden return to life is even now circulating in the press and the social media.”

Sherlock’s laughter was a grating echo of its former self. “I don’t care. The only thing that matters is Moran.”

Mycroft wanted to say something if only to mitigate his brother’s pain, but he knew just one wrong comment and Sherlock would shatter with no hope of recovery. The best Mycroft could hope for would be a quick end to a horrific two-year exile for his brother.

“Let’s find Moran,” Mycroft finally said. “And those nuclear triggers.”

Sherlock was already getting dressed, taking care that his outfit would make him look like a member of the Homeless Network.

“I’ll contact you as soon as I have something,” Sherlock said, his mind already racing steps ahead. 

Mycroft didn’t bother answering. Instead, he silently watched his brother shrug off pain and insurmountable grief before leaving. He wondered how long Sherlock could outrun his demons, and what he could do when Sherlock failed.

Anthea’s delicate footsteps snapped him from his musings. “Sir, the latest sweeps still haven’t shown anything.”

“Those triggers are definitely here,” Mycroft said. “The reason the satellites haven’t been able to locate them is because Moran has found a way to mask them. Or Moriarty had before his demise.”

Anthea’s stare was calm but Mycroft could sense disquiet in her slender frame. “What is it?”

“Sir, they found a body near Battersea Bridge. They’re trying to identify it now.”

“Then it’s not Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said. “It must be the shooter. Find out who he is, Anthea. As soon as possible.”

“I already have Lewis on it, Sir.”

“Is that all?”

“No, some of our people – they are wondering what they should do, now that they know your brother is alive.”

“Tell them to do nothing, at least for now. The moment Sherlock finds Moran, they will have their chance to cut their pound.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“They’re not really asking about Sherlock. They’re asking about Dr. Watson. Over the years he’s become quite the respected figure to them, especially when he refused to give up on my brother no matter what the press and the general public said. That kind of loyalty goes far with certain people, especially those who had served.”

“They want revenge.”

“And revenge they shall have.” Mycroft stared at the lovely view outside his window. “I fear London will pay a great price for our mistakes.”

“Sir?”

“Sherlock and I believed that because of our intelligence, we could outsmart Moran. The problem wasn’t that we weren’t smart enough, Anthea. The problem was we were incapable of understanding someone like Moran.

“And Dr. Watson has paid the ultimate price for our blindness.”

“I will have our people on standby.”

“I must speak with the Home Secretary immediately. We now know the nuclear triggers are in London. That must be addressed as quickly and as quietly as possible. Even if it means overseeing the entire project myself.”

Anthea blanched. “Is that advisable?”

“Of course not. I calculate my time in the Government will come to an abrupt end the moment Moran’s doings are discussed, but there is too much that needs to be done by myself personally. So, let’s make this one count, Anthea. If we are to be shown the door – let those who come after us always speak of our finale with fear and awe.”

“Fear and awe,” Anthea echoed as she typed it into her phone. The cheeky smile on her face made the burden Mycroft must bear a great deal lighter. “I’ll get right on that.”

“Do we have sufficient number of people on Sherlock?”

“We have three agents within the Homeless Network. And all are women, so it would take Sherlock more focus than he can spare to discover their identities.”

“Good, and thank you for spotting his blind spot.”

“My pleasure.”

Mycroft waited until Anthea’s steps were halfway down the hall before he pulled out an old snapshot from his jacket pocket. It was a simple 2x3 featuring two men: Sherlock and John. The photographer was one of Mycroft’s agents who had never explained why he’d taken the snapshot.

The two were leaning over a large tome, in the Bodleian by the looks of the stacks behind them. There were thin arrows of light throughout the picture, some targeting Watson’s hair, turning it into golden helmet. While Sherlock’s eyes seemed to be lit by fire within. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, crowded around the ancient table, and even older book. 

They looked like men who shared a single, all-encompassing purpose. They looked like men who were comfortable in their skins and had made peace with the world. 

They looked like men Mycroft would envy.

* * *

Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled the cigarette smoke, hating the scent while enjoying the brief calm that followed. He could actually hear John’s ‘Sherlock, put that out or I swear I will bin Mr. Kaplan’s spleen while you’re at the Yard!’

Sherlock choked out a laugh. Oh, how ironic it all was. While he was away Sherlock had done everything humanly possible to keep John’s voice alive if only in his mind. In fact, people routinely made a wide berth of him because Sherlock kept a running dialogue with John’s voice. 

He’d tried to silence it when it all began, but after a day of tormenting quiet, Sherlock reclaimed it with great desperation. And it wasn’t as if he’d cared what others thought of him muttering in taxis, on the streets, and airports. 

Now, now that there was no more John, Sherlock couldn’t stop hearing his best friend’s voice prattle on and on even as he was slowly being pulled apart by the phantom reminder.

_If this is madness then I welcome it_ , Sherlock concluded. _If I am to die, then let it be with John by my side._

Sharp footsteps garnered all his attention, and Sherlock opened up his pack of cigarettes. Without a word he offered it to the sprout of a girl who approached him cautiously. She looked like any eleven-year-old girl from an affluent family with her bright face and tasteful jewelry. Even her school uniform was clean and looked recently pressed.

That was seventeen-year-old Tina’s best trick. And nobody was wiser when the girl stumbled onto them, at least until hours later when they realized they were missing jewelry, wallets, phones, and other expensive items.

“Anything new?” Sherlock asked coolly, watching Tina take a deep drag and then let out an addict’s sigh of satisfaction.

“Nothing to build a house on, Gerry. But there is something curious,” Tina said. “There’s been talk of men, all soldier-like, moving around Lowe Wharf, which is weird. Nobody’s been there since the development thing fell apart.”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered just for a moment. “Lowe was the major property holder of that particular stretch of land, had been for over a century. They processed most of the dry cleaning for west London. When the fire was put out, there was so much chemical spill the entire wharf had to be condemned. Any developer looking to purchase the land must first clean it up.”

“Well, someone did in 2012. I remember those big awful signs, telling everyone something ridiculously posh was going to be put up. There was a sound studio across the street I used to bunk during the cold months.”

Sherlock raised his head and studied the far landscape of the Thames. It made sense, The Spider had woven so many webs, why not one more? Why not for his favorite soldier?

Sherlock handed over fifty quid in small denomination. “This is for the information.” He handed over another fifty. “This is for the future.”

Tina eagerly pocketed the money. “Why so generous?”

“The men you spoke of … they stole something from me,” Sherlock said. “And I want it back.”

Tina wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Fuck the lot of them, then. Good luck there, mate.”

Sherlock gave a nod and walked away. Homeless they may be, but they definitely had their uses.

He studied the derelict piece of land from half a block away, and sure enough Tina’s information was good. There were definitely men, seven in total, who moved in and out of the abandoned buildings with the practiced ease of soldiers. By nightfall he had memorized their rotation schedule, even what they liked to eat and when.

Sherlock finally moved at three in the morning because John had once told him it was the best time for an attack.

_Three to four, Sherlock, that’s the dead hour. Not midnight, not one. If you have to attack, make it three. Best chance of success, best chance out of getting alive and not getting caught, because that’s when the police and the medical workers usually start clocking out. Not seven or eight. So, remember that._

“I remember, John,” Sherlock muttered softly as he made his way around the burnt offerings, silently treading on bones of buildings.

He was inside what he suspected was Lowe’s main plant. First, he would do some reconnaissance and send the information to Mycroft. Then, he would find Moran and kill the animal with his bare hands. 

Sherlock didn’t think he’d survive a fight with someone like Moran, and he didn’t care. 

So, the blow to the back of his head was anticlimactic to say the least.

* * *

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes, fighting down the vicious nausea that overwhelmed him when light penetrated his vision.

“And here he is, the famous or shall I say infamous, the world’s only Consulting Detective.”

“And I thought Moriarty liked to talk.”

The laughter that followed Sherlock’s jibe was genuine and surprisingly warm. Sherlock looked up to a youthful face with lively eyes. It was nothing like the ones in the pictures Sherlock had on him.

“I presume you are Moran?”

The soldier raised his arms and gave a jaunty bow. “As I am.”

“You’re too young to be a colonel.”

“That was one of Jim’s jokes. He asked me what rank I wanted to be and I just blurted out colonel. The whisky I had right before the meeting might have had something to do with that. It certainly wasn’t became I was enamoured with the rank.”

“Your name isn’t even Sebastian Moran, is it?”

“As much as Richard Brooke was for Moriarty, so … no.”

Sherlock studied the soldier and found a man of average height with massive shoulders and chest. The leather jacket did nothing to hide the strength or the easy grace Moran possessed.

“What should I call you then?”

“Moran works for me. I’ve been him for so long, I prefer it, actually.”

“I have to ask: why? After Moriarty died you had a chance to start a new life. So why stay?”

Moran shoved his hands into the jacket pockets and shrugged. “Don’t know, to tell the truth. Money definitely wasn’t the problem. It’s just that … I get bored so _easily_. And London is so much fun. You can understand that, right?”

“So much fun that you flooded her streets with guns?”

“Londoners always talk so badly about Americans and their obsession with guns, but in truth? They’re no better. You give them a gun and they’ll use it like a cowboy in a shootout. Besides, it kept the boys at the Met busy. And I needed them busy.”

“The nuclear triggers.”

“I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me.” Moran flashed another of those warm smiles.

“And John?”

The smile vanished. “It was a mistake. John wasn’t supposed to be harmed. In fact, I had ordered all hands off of him from the day you met up with Jim at Barts.”

Sherlock was stunned. “Why?”

“Well, first off: John was my assignment. I had him in my sights since he’d moved into Baker Street four years ago.”

Noticing Sherlock’s confusion, Moran explained further. “Being a sniper is a funny thing, Mr. Holmes. We watch our target for hours, days, sometimes for months on end.

“And sooner or later, you develop a rapport with them. You see what they go through understand what they feel. I knew Dr. Watson even before Moriarty gave me his dossier. Damn good soldier, a fair captain, and hell, one of the best surgeons in the British Forces. There are many soldiers walking around because of him.

“So, you could imagine how fascinated I was to have him in my crosshairs. It was incredible, watching him grieve for you. It was like seeing a mountain fall to pieces. But what was even more amazing was watching him pull himself together one agonizing day after another. That’s real character right there, Mr. Holmes. It was an honour, actually, to be with him every step of the way.”

Sherlock finally understood. “You’re obsessed with him.”

Moran shrugged. “I guess. How can I not be after watching John for four years? Hell, that’s two years more than you.”

Sherlock recoiled at the idea that Moran had spent more time with John than he had. “And yet, your man killed him.”

Moran smiled. “No, he didn’t.”

“What?” Sherlock leaned forward and bared his teeth. “Are you really that stupid?”

“John was wearing a vest, Mr. Holmes. Somebody, probably one of his homeless patients, warned him he was in danger. And John, being the sensible soul that he is, took the warning seriously.

“I know for a fact that he approached Lestrade and managed to get body armour in March. And since we both know how much John love wearing those bulky jumpers, I think it’s safe to assume he was wearing the vest during Dr. Sawyer’s party.”

“Then where is he?”

Moran shrugged. “I have no fucking clue. But since you’re here, I think it’s safe to assume he’ll be here as soon as he can.”

“John…”

Moran didn’t give a warning. He stepped around Sherlock’s chair, grabbed it by the armrests and swung it. It was as if Sherlock weighed a feather to the man.

Sherlock opened his mouth to hurl insults but what he saw froze the air in his lungs. The entire west wall of the room was plastered with pictures of John. John with Sherlock; John on various dates; at work; at a pub with Stamford or Lestrade. John was standing in front of Sherlock’s grave, holding red poppies. John in a gym, running at full speed, with the treadmill angled towards the sky. 

It was John, all John from floor to ceiling.

And it just got worse. Somehow, Moran managed to get his hands on John’s oatmeal jumper, his blue checkered shirt, even the worn pair of jeans with the holes on the knees: the holes courtesy of an experiment gone wrong thanks to Sherlock’s bad timing. 

Along with the ensemble were John’s worn brogues. Even his woven leather belt was threaded carefully through the loops. 

And this entire display of horrors was sitting in John’s armchair from 221b. The only thing that was missing was John himself.

The noise that escaped from Sherlock’s mouth was something completely unrecognizable. 

_I left John with this … with this … thing. I left him behind, thinking he was safe, and all the while Moran was building this shrine…_

Moran strolled up to the biggest picture of John’s careworn face and studied it with great focus. “He really is the most remarkable human being I’ve ever met. I know people would think it’d be you or even Moriarty, and heaven knows geniuses of your caliber are rare. But rarer is the person who can nurture such talent and not hold a grudge, or feel cheated. I often wondered what he’d do when he found out you were alive. And then … well, then I stopped wondering because it didn’t matter.

“What mattered was John Hamish Watson, not John Hamish Watson with Sherlock Holmes. And I think … I think you’d agree with me, yes?”

“You’ve gone mad,” Sherlock accused hoarsely.

Moran turned to face him and shook his head. “Hardly, Mr. Holmes. This display is what four years of reconnaissance looks like. Right now, I know more about John than you do, or ever will, probably.

“Right now, I have more right to call him ‘John’ than anyone else on this earth. And isn’t that a laugh?”

Sherlock began violently struggling against his bonds. Moran just continued to laugh softly and shook his head.

“Right, yeah, thought you might feel that way.”

It was a single blow but more than enough to make Sherlock stop struggling. Moran then emptied a syringe into Sherlock’s bloodstream.

“Have a nap, you look like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in years.”

The last thing Sherlock heard was that hateful, warm laugh.

* * *

John looked at the mirror and winced. He had dyed his hair auburn and shaved off the itchy moustache. Now, instead of looking like an overly harassed teacher, he resembled one of those tossers who spent couple of million pounds on a posh flat in Aldgate, and drove a BMW because he thought it was both chic and ironic.

Harry appeared on the bathroom doorway with a large, nondescript overnight bag. She put it down on the tiled floor.

“The news exploded,” Harry said carefully. “They’ve got pictures of you and Sherlock all over the place.”

“What are they saying?” John asked.

“That you were a victim of a shooting, and presumed dead. They found your killer, by the way. A bastard by the name of Jeremy Smythe, from Bath of all places.”

“Was he a soldier?”

“No, that was the weird thing,” Harry said. “He was a small-time drug dealer who was arrested once for distribution. The powers that be didn't bother to send him to prison because he had so little on him. From what I could gather Smythe was one of those pretty club boys who supplied the party-goers with flavours.”

“And that’s why I’m alive,” John said. “He held the gun sideways, like you see in the movies. The slide probably ate his hand, not to mention the recoil. Your aim is for shit holding a gun like that.”

Harry pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you complaining about how the bastard missed killing you.”

“Sorry, Harry. It’s been a damn long day.”

Harry gave a wan smile but didn’t say anything else as she helped John get rid of his wet clothes and wash away the evidence in the bathtub.

By the time everything was done it was well past midnight. 

“Do you have to go, now?” Harry asked, eyeing John’s pallor and the awkward way he held himself.

“I have no choice. You’re being watched by both Mycroft’s men and Moran’s,” John said. “Just act normally. Does your firm expect you to come in tomorrow?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, if only to appease the higher ups that I won’t go mental over your supposed death. Then, I suspect unless they really are aliens from space, they’ll let me take a short holiday.”

“You know what to do,” John said, placing his hands on his sister’s shoulders.

“Yes, Sussex,” Harry answered. “Have to get out of London in order to avoid the press and plan your funeral.”

“Don’t go into specifics,” John urged his sister. “Just keep it general and if you need to: cry. That should make things awkward enough for the questions to stop.”

“I am a lawyer,” Harry said drily. “I think I know how to spin a story, and more importantly: when to shut up.”

Without warning John embraced her tightly. “Thank you, for everything. For being there when I needed you.”

Harry let out a small sob and hugged back just as fiercely. “Take care.”

She watched John leave through the back stairs before returning to her flat. 

“Right,” she whispered. “Like hell I’m going to Sussex.”

Harry began pulling out all the list of contacts she’d germinated over her career and finalized the battle plan she had begun when John had come to her a year ago, in tears, after finding out Sherlock was still alive.

_When I get my hand on that mad bastard he’d better have bloody good excuse. Otherwise, I’ll just throttle him because it’s impossible to go to prison for killing a corpse._


	3. Beginning of the End

When Sherlock came to, the first thing he noticed was the nausea rolling through his body, from skull to feet. The second: a familiar face openly studying him with concern. Just for a moment, Sherlock relaxed because Mycroft meant they had control of the situation.

Then Sherlock saw the binds anchoring his brother to his chair and realized Mycroft was as much of a prisoner as he was. Though he remained essentially unharmed, his brother was in a state of dishabille that Sherlock had never seen.

“What happened?” Sherlock asked as he blinked back the after effects of the narcotics.

“It seems Moran has infiltrated my unit quite thoroughly. I was grabbed on my way to find you.”

Sherlock laughed weakly. “I see he is playing his endgame, then.”

“Whatever that may be,” Mycroft said.

“I thought that would be obvious to geniuses like you two,” Moran said as he came into the room.

Sherlock glared at him. “Enlighten us, please.”

“You, I’m going to kill,” Moran answered. “Your brother is going to be auctioned off along with the triggers. I think he’ll probably fetch the highest price.”

Mycroft’s smile was simultaneously polite and condescending. “I assure you, I won’t be as profitable as you hope.”

“Oh, I’m not asking for money,” Moran said with a smile. “I’m aiming for something else: time.”

Mycroft’s smile faded. “Time? Or do you mean sanctuary?”

“Nothing so fancy. I want the winner to buy us some time to get going.”

“Clear airspace, new identities, and like,” Sherlock concluded. 

“Close enough,” Moran said. “Thanks to men like your brother, privacy has become the most precious commodity in the world. And I plan on getting myself and my men as much of it as possible.”

“There is none,” Mycroft said in a bored tone. “And no amount of money or loyalty will allow you to escape unscathed.”

Moran patted Mycroft on the shoulders gently, as if soothing the man. “Keep thinking that. But I think between you and four nuclear triggers there will be someone happy to try. And in this day and age that’s all I could ask for.”

Sherlock’s glare turned icier. “What are you waiting for, then? Go ahead. Fulfill your obligations to a dead psychopath. _Shoot me_.”

Moran raised shook his head and tsk-ed like a disappointed headmaster. “You geniuses are always so impatient.”

“That is one of his less charming personalities,” John said evenly as he entered the room with his gun aimed at Moran.

Moran’s cheerful demeanor slipped entirely. In that moment Sherlock had expected to glimpse the real Moran only to be presented with a blank mask.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” Moran said as he raised his hands.

Sherlock noticed Moran's avaricious gaze as the man studied John, and felt violated.

“People keep saying that, and I sincerely hope they continue to do so,” John said pleasantly. He didn’t say anything else as he came around Moran and towards the Holmes brothers. 

With one slick cut of his folding knife, John freed Sherlock who, in turn, untied Mycroft.

“I have to wonder where my men are,” Moran said.

“The three who were loyal to you … well, ‘were’ being the operative word,” John said. “And I think that explains everything, don’t you?”

Sherlock was taken back by John's casual demeanor while explaining the deaths of three human beings. His mouth opened but no words came out. Sherlock hesitantly reached out to touch his friend but drew back at the last minute, remembering their situation. Even Mycroft seemed reluctant to approach his saviour, as if the man might respond violently, or just vanish altogether.

“All right, then?’ John asked. 

Before Sherlock could answer, John glanced at the wall. His self-control wavered only for a moment when he caught sight of his outfit laid out on his old armchair.

“I have a comprehensive collection,” Moran said. 

“I know.” And with that John pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession. 

Moran spun once, and then fell to the floor without any grace. His eyes were wide open in the pool of blood that leaked out of his massive frame. 

Mycroft didn’t even blink. Instead, he grabbed Sherlock by his elbow and dragged him away. Two of Moran’s men joined the motley group as they winded their way through the dim corridors. Obviously, John had somehow earned their trust away from Moran.

“Is everything in place?” John asked.

The skinny ginger with spots answered: “Yes.”

“And the triggers?” John asked as he took out his cell phone.

“Secure,” the ginger answered. “We’ve located them elsewhere.”

“Good.”

There was no further conversation and the men safely made their way out of the building. The sun peeked on the horizon, signaling dawn. Sherlock knew he had much to think about, but all his focus was on could John who was few steps ahead of him.

The men crowded behind a vandalized truck at the edge of the wharf, the farthest point from the warehouse. John handed over his mobile phone to Mycroft who swiftly began making calls. 

Then, John gave a nod to the ginger, who returned a toothy grin in exchange. He pulled out another cell phone and sent a text.

Suddenly, the building they had escaped imploded. Sherlock watched in shock as the fireball rose up high then immediately dissipated.

“Controlled explosion, cornerstone formation,” the ginger said gleefully. “That’s a work of art that is.”

Mycroft and Sherlock were spared from making any comments as a line of cars came roaring down the street.

John and his men didn’t resist arrest, not that they were handled roughly. Most of Mycroft’s men treated John with care, and handled the rest with distant respect.

Mycroft was busy with making calls during the entire ride back to his office. Sherlock, on the other hand, did nothing. His entire focus was trained on the car ahead of them. It was as if he could stare hard enough, he could see the back of John’s head and maybe read his mind.

Sherlock was able to do that once; what seemed like a lifetime ago. Then, he wondered if he ever did, really. If what he had perceived was just a façade that john had managed to put up for Sherlock to peruse over, like the popular paperback novels that infect various airport bookstands.

Sherlock jumped out of the car the moment it stopped, but was prevented by Mycroft’s agents from approaching John. As he expected, John and his men were separated and marshaled into three different interrogation rooms.

Sherlock was tempted to run after John but refrained. He knew better than to believe he would be allowed anywhere near his friend. Instead, he went to clean up and went hunting for Mycroft only to face off with Anthea.

For once she wasn’t looking at her phone. Instead, she was studying a stack of files.

“Are those of the men?” Sherlock asked brusquely.

“Yes, they are,” Anthea answered. “Very enlightening reading, actually.”

Sherlock tried to grab them but Anthea moved fast. She swung around him in a single, graceful arc and continued to walk down the hallway.

“You can watch the debriefings, but not the one with Dr. Watson,” Anthea said over her shoulder. “Mr. Holmes was very clear about that.”

Sherlock’s upper lip curled up in disdain. “My brother does not know how to handle John, that much is obvious from the absolute cock-up that was the November Project.”

Anthea raised an elegant eyebrow. “And you handled your end so well.”

Sherlock bit back a sharp retort as she walked away. He knew better than to alienate one of two people in this building who were aware of the depth of his feeling for John.

* * *

Mycroft took a deep breath before opening the door. Dr. Watson presented a neat and compact figure, as was his usual wont. His hands were on the table, both scraped and bloody. It was obvious that he was in more than few fights since yesterday.

John looked up at gave a small, friendless smile. Gone was any recognition of amity they had developed over the years spent looking over Sherlock. Mycroft allowed himself to feel a moment of sadness for its passing before switching his mindset to a more efficient if also colder path.

“This is embarrassing, really,” he began cordially. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Well, we could start with how you helped fake Sherlock’s suicide,” John amiably offered. “And then move onto how that failed to corral in Moran and his plans. Of course, we could always start with the nuclear triggers instead.”

Mycroft took a small sip of water before continuing. “Where are the triggers?”

“Where are my men?” was John's reply.

“Do you think you can bargain with me?”

“No, I don’t think that because I don’t want to bargain. Let my men go and you’ll get your triggers.”

“Don’t you mean Moran’s men?”

John shook his head. “Not at all. Moran lost all control of McKinnon and Timmons when he brought in nuclear weapons to London. He should have known that soldiers, even those who feel betrayed by their country, would never allow such a thing into their backyards.”

Mycroft sat back in his chair. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I am. Call Lestrade. He should have secured the locations by now.”

Mycroft blinked rapidly at this sudden turn in the interrogation. “Lestrade?”

“Yes, I called him the moment I crawled out of the Thames. We’ve been coordinating with each other since I found out Sherlock was alive. Give me some credit, Mycroft. I knew I couldn’t do this alone.”

The older Holmes brother sighed and shook his head. “But you couldn’t trust me.”

“No,” John said. “How could I trust someone who couldn’t trust me? Who used me in such a manner that would be perceived as unforgivable by anyone who understands the word ‘trust’?”

“Because I…”

“And whose people couldn’t be trusted?”

Mycroft fell silent. 

“Your organization has cancer, Mycroft, but you couldn’t see it.” John sat back and rubbed his bottom lip with his index finger. “For all your brilliance, neither your nor Sherlock could see the blatant truth.”

“And that would be?” Mycroft grated out.

“You’re men in air conditioned rooms,” John said flatly. “Sherlock was suited for London, but when it comes to being a foot soldier in a real war and make no mistake, that's what this was ... he is about capable of it as you. But neither of you could see it.

“Yes, you are brilliant at planning but any soldier could tell you - the moment the first bullet flies? It all goes to shit, and luck takes control. That and air support.”

“So, you took full discretion?”

“I had no choice. When McKinnon came to me about Moran, I realized what was happening. So, I called in Lestrade, and we decided to turn as many of Moran’s men as possible. And with McKinnon on my side, it wasn’t that hard. Yeah, they are mercs. I’m not stupid, but they’d like their money without worrying about radiation poisoning.”

“So, you trust a group of men who’d sell their mothers for a princely sum.”

“Would you I rather trust a group of men who sold me out for convenience sake?”

“That wasn’t it, John. Sherlock did no such thing.”

“Right, he made me his suicide note because it was … what? Tell me, Mycroft, why did he do that for?”

Mycroft took too long to answer. “It wasn’t an easy decision, John.”

“No, but it was one that you and Sherlock had in the wings for a while. There was no way all that could have been planned out at the last minute. So, you and Sherlock knew what happened on the roof could be the endgame.”

“You are incapable of deception.”

“And yet, here I am with the nuclear triggers. I think it’s safe to say you made a mistake about me. Which also means you could have made mistakes about a lot of other people.”

“Indeed. So, why should I keep making mistakes by trusting you?”

“Because you’ve had nothing left to lose, and I mean that quite literally,” John said. “The Met has the triggers and evidence that Moran was responsible for the recent spike in illegal firearm sales. You could hush up some of it, I’m sure. But nuclear triggers? Mycroft, you can’t shut down everything.

“This is going to make Lestrade at the Met, which will have him in their good graces until the Second Coming and finally stop them from punishing him for the Moriarty debacle. The nuclear triggers will be handed over to your people in couple of hours. And the public will be assured by the Disparage Box that there will be a noticeable drop in gun violence.”

“And your men?”

“They got what they wanted: payment,” John said. “And a cleaner conscience than if they continued to work with Moran. Think about it: isn’t that what you would have done? For the sake of Queen and Country, and all that?”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so,” Mycroft said. “But I want to know: why did you do it?”

John rubbed his face with his hands, for a moment looking tired as Mycroft felt. “I want this to be over, Mycroft. I want Mrs. Hudson safe at Baker Street. I want Lestrade and his people to chase down criminals and not worry about nuclear arsenals and Moran peering down at them from some roof a mile away. I want Harry to be concerned about staying sober and not about car bombs. 

“I just want to be me again, before all this … before Sherlock came into my life and turned it head over heels.”

“But you appreciated him, once,” Mycroft said softly, feeling desperation overwhelm his common sense.

“Yeah, I did, and I still do in a way. Sherlock pulled me out of hell, Mycroft, and I know I owe him. So, this is me paying back the principal and the interest. Sherlock can come home now, back to London. And you can keep doing whatever it is that you do.”

“And you? Could you be satisfied with being just a doctor?”

“Just a doctor? I like my job as a doctor. No, it’s not as exciting as my position as Sherlock’s faithful blogger, but let me tell you something – after chasing Moran down for a year and juggling four nuclear triggers: normalcy looks fantastic right about now.”

“So, wife and children, then? Perhaps a dog in a year or two?”

“I don’t know. But I’m free now to see if I do want that. I have the choice, Mycroft. A _choice_. Something I never had when I running after Sherlock. And I plan to enjoy my freedom.”

“Sherlock did not want to leave you in the dark. Please, believe me.”

“Mycroft, you said it yourself: I had trust issues when we first met. Do you think they’ve abated since I’ve discovered your plans? Moran’s plans? 

“I want to get on with my life, so please – for everyone’s sake - accept the fact that I’m done. It’s over, Mycroft. You of all people should be happy with how everything turned out.”

Mycroft’s face folded in grief when he heard John’s final words, and just for a breath, his resemblance to Sherlock was magnified by the sense of loss and confusion.

“I guess we owe you that much, Dr. Watson,” he said finally.

“Yeah, you do.”

Mycroft stood up and had to brace himself against the table. Then, with his usual air of cool intellect, left the small room.

* * *

Anthea looked up at the grinning man across the table. The dossier on Sergeant McKinnon said he was forty-three. He looked twenty-five, with the riotous curls of red hair framing a Puckish face. 

“So, you were John’s point man in this escapade.”

“Escapade? I like to think of it as … repatriation.”

“Nice choice of words,” Anthea said. “I like it.”

“Look, what can I say? The money was good,” McKinnon said. “It’s not like I wanted Moran dead. But … well, the Captain showed me that we had a choice, and more than that: we had to choose.”

“Choose? I don’t quite understand.”

“You see one of the reasons for being a soldier is that someone else makes the hard choices for you. You follow the orders and well, if you’re fucked, you’re fucked. Moran made all the hard choices for us, and that was good. What wasn’t so good was when Moran turned his personal preferences into our problems.”

“Such as?”

“His fucking obsession with the Captain,” McKinnon blurted out angrily. “Look, I know snipers can get fixated on their targets. Bloody hell, America had to restructure their entire programme in order to avoid what Moran had become. But Moran took that to a whole new level of obscene. And we couldn’t stomach it."

“In the initial debriefing you mentioned there was a wall? Dedicated to the doctor?”

“Terrifying thing, and I’ve seen my fair share of fucked up,” McKinnon said. “It was as if Moran wanted to be Watson? To deserve Watson? Whatever the reason was, it came from a dark, ugly place. And a man that twisted has no loyalties, no matter what he says.”

“But you worked for him. He must have had something to gain your trust.”

“Money, and plenty of it. Moriarty had left him a fuck ton of it, and Moran could have lived comfortably for three lifetimes but he wasn’t the type to retire and settle down in Spain.”

“You think he was furious about Moriarty being killed?”

“Not at all. Moran knew the mad bastard killed himself to spite Sherlock Holmes. He has no patience for things like that. And Moriarty had already made arrangements to buy the triggers, so Moran didn’t have to work much. He went through with the buys and the next thing I know I’m fucking escorting a nuclear trigger through Bristol.”

“Then what happened?”

McKinnon took a deep drink and lit his first cigarette. His fingers didn’t tremble, but from the moue of his lips, it was obvious he needed a drag.

“Then Moran brought in another, and another, and another. All four nuclear triggers in London. Look, I don’t give a shit about Queen and Country, but that kind of arsenal here? Millions of people … and then there was Davie.”

“Who is Davie?”

“You know I was in the foster care system since I was born. Davie was the closest thing I had to a brother. The foster family that took care of us was a decent lot, but I was a mess then and couldn’t appreciate it. I disappeared when I turned seventeen and mucked about before joining the army. I was on leave and bumped into Davie in Aldershot. He was just like before, a good kid with the kind of moral compass that you just don’t see much anymore.

“He saw me in my uniform and decided that was the life for him. Fuck, save for the Pope, there wasn’t anybody else more unsuited for the army than Davie. Somehow the kid made it through training, and got himself assigned to a motor unit. He always had a knack for fixing things, so no surprise there. His unit was in Iraq for nearly six months before they were recalled to the Green Zone.”

Anthea waited patiently and lit another cigarette for him. McKinnon finished the entire second cigarette before continuing. And this time the stress in his voice was plain enough for the listeners.

“The unit was marching through miles of dirt without a problem, and that right there should have told Davie to be careful. But the idiot was dreaming about hot showers and real food.”

“Davie saw a bag by the roadside and the fool didn’t even think. He picked it up and … and that’s when he saw what was inside.”

“A bomb,” Anthea said gently.

“Yeah, but as luck would have it, it didn’t blow. So, there’s Davie standing on this dirt road, holding a bomb. His people go to pieces but by God, they weren’t alone. There was also an RAMC unit attached to them because they were recalled to the Green Zone too. And among them was a newly-minted lieutenant by the name of John H. Watson. 

“That fucking magnificent bastard did something no one ever thought of. He pulled out his knife and begins cutting off parts of the bomb. Davie said it was like watching Ma cut through a brisket. He couldn’t cut off all of it, but Watson managed to slice off enough in a minute that what went off … the blast put Davie out of the Army but didn’t kill him.

“Davie can’t hear from his left ear and it took him six months to walk properly, but he’s got all his arms and legs. And he learnt his lesson. That’s Doc Watson for you, ladies and gents. So, when I saw that wall and knowing where those nuclear triggers were: I chose. I made contact with the Captain.”

“And he told you what to do?”

McKinnon nodded. “He isn’t the genius that the Holmes brothers are, but the man was a career soldier, and a damn good one. When he voluntarily retired from RAMC he was tapped by a lot of private companies. He turned them all down and re-enlisted as a soldier.”

“And you trusted him?”

“Yeah, I did and I still do. He cares and isn’t afraid to show it. In the world we live in – that takes a solid pair. He and that DI did good work sussing out what Moran was up to, and what his endgame was. We just didn’t expect the timetable to be moved up so quickly, but we adjusted. It figures Sherlock Holmes would show up and the whole show would go to shite.”

Anthea didn’t bother to hide her curiosity as she asked, “What will you do now? I presume you’ve been paid.”

“Yeah, I’ve got enough. I’m going to go sailing. I’ll have to learn first and I don’t plan to go anywhere below Spain, but it would be nice to just worry whether Mother Nature was going to fuck me over instead of people.”

“How is that relaxing, exactly?”

“Nature you can’t control. Can’t stop a hurricane or earthquakes. So, why worry? I wouldn’t waste my time on that. Wouldn’t want to.”

“That’s rather philosophical, actually.”

“Really?” McKinnon looked inordinately pleased by Anthea’s comment. “Cheers!”

She stood up and looked at her phone. “I see the other interviews are over.”

McKinnon winked at her. “But you had the most fun, yeah?”

“Probably,” she said. “But I can’t say.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. If you did, you’d have to kill me.”

Anthea rolled her eyes in good humour and walked out of the room. She saw Dr. Watson being escorted by a spook who looked slightly bewildered by the fact that he’d witnessed the resurrection of not one but two dead men.

Dr. Watson came to a halt the moment he spotted her.

“Anthea,” he said pleasantly. “I was wondering … could I speak with Sherlock?”

The spook looked pleadingly at Anthea. It was obvious this discrepancy in protocol might just give him a stroke. Anthea was feeling charitable, but not towards the agent.

“Come with me,” Anthea said. “But you have to make it brief.”

“Of course. I don’t want to take up any more time than necessary.”

John followed her with docile innocence; his lined face brushed with more than a little fatigue. From the tense way he held himself, it was obvious to all and sundry that he was wounded by the shooting. After all, they were all too well aware of the limitation of body armour.

The door to the canteen opened, showing a room full of agents, all abuzz with what had happened. Sherlock was once again dressed in his usual armour of a sharp suit, handmade loafers, and dark plum shirt. Unfortunately his hair remained in that outrageous ginger colour.

The room fell silent instantly, as the occupants recognized John. Sherlock was the first to notice, though. He stood up slowly, his movements jerky and unsure. 

“John,” he began speaking. “I owe you a thousand apologies.”

John looked at Sherlock with softness in his face, something that had been sorely missing earlier.

“You’re okay, then,” John said. He gave a single, firm nod. “All right. Glad to know.”

Sherlock’s smile was thin and crooked. “Not so okay.”

“I want my identity discs.”

Sherlock already tense frame tightened even further. “Discs?”

John sighed. “Look, I know you have them. I’ve searched everywhere. I’ve paid them with blood and grief, Sherlock. So, please, give them back.”

Sherlock’s eyes roamed all over John’s face, as if looking for a secret message, some code that would allow Sherlock to see the meaning behind John’s demand.

It only took a moment before Sherlock let out a small sigh. He shifted a little to unbutton his shirt, a telltale jingle revealed his guilt. The silence in the canteen turned sharp and tangy with shock as Sherlock pulled out a metal chain with two small discs dangling like pendants.

He handed them over without a word, though his face spoke volumes of regret and hope.

John studied the discs in his hand for a long time before looking up at Sherlock. “I’m not angry with you, just remember that. But I can’t do this. Not anymore: my life’s changed now. And I don’t have the strength to go back.

“Good luck, Sherlock. And thank you for everything.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock as he digested John’s farewell speech. It took him a moment before he managed to croak out:

“What will you do now?”

“I’m looking into joining a small practice in Sussex. Plan to move into my Nan’s place and fix it up properly instead of puttering here and there on the odd weekends. It felt like a haven when I was a boy. Maybe, with a little luck, it will again.”

John put the discs into his jacket pocket. Then, without another word, he walked out of the room and Sherlock’s life. 

Anthea watched pale and unsure as Sherlock quietly sank back into his chair. She heard Watson’s soft footfall and felt every step as if it were a punch to her solar plexus. So, she couldn’t imagine what Sherlock must be feeling as he heard his best friend walk away.

Sherlock’s hands didn’t tremble as he reached for the mug, and they were sure and strong when he flung the hot tea clear across the room, the shattering of ceramic like ricochet in the small space.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft softly said from the door.

His younger brother looked towards Mycroft, his face made impossibly young by pain and confusion.

“But I did it for him,” Sherlock said. “I don’t understand…”

Mycroft grasped Sherlock by his shoulders and physically lifted him to his feet. “Let’s go home. It’s been a long day.”

Sherlock shocked Anthea even further by remaining obedient in his brother’s arms: something she’d never seen in the decade she had been working for Mycroft Holmes.

Just out of loyalty to her boss, Anthea wanted to dredge up some indignation on behalf of the younger Holmes, but she couldn’t manage it. Watson deserved his peace; his mercenaries deserved their payday; and most importantly: England deserved to have her borders guarded.


	4. Soldier to Soldier

John limped out of the cab and towards the mob of police gathered around the rubble that was the warehouse. The constable guarding the perimeter saw him and raised a hand that faltered when recognition hit him.

“Oh Jesus,” Constable Patel blurted out. “Oh my God, you’re alive!”

John gave a wan smile. “Yes, I am, but barely. Could you get Lestrade? I really do need to go to a hospital.”

The constable didn’t need further pushing and immediately called out for the DI. Lestrade came jogging out of the blue horde moments later, his face alight with relief.

“Thank God,” he said, clapping John’s shoulders. “You look like shite, but something tells me you still look a sight better than those bastards in there.”

John gave a tired nod. “You can say that.”

“Sherlock?”

“He and Mycroft are safe,” John said. “They’re in their version of Fortress of Semi Solitude. It will probably take an actual army to get to them since the entire place is swarming with Mycroft’s people.”

Lestrade gave a huff of relief. “Glad to hear that. At least that way I can punch the bastard in good conscience when I see him.”

John chuckled, a tired but happy sound. “Anything?”

“We found Moran right over there,” Lestrade said pointing to the left of the mound. “The body’s intact in spite of the metric bloody ton of debris around it.”

John’s happy demeanor slipped away. “Where?”

“He was found in the northwest corner. There must have been…”

John shook his head. “No, that’s not where he was.”

“Maybe he tried to make it out?”

“Fuck, I didn’t take the head shot,” John said, remembering the confrontation. “Two to the chest and he went down…”

“John … what are you saying?”

“Moran isn’t like Moriarty. He’s not insane and he’s not a megalomaniac. He knows he’s lost.”

“What is he?”

“Pissed off is what he is,” John said reluctantly. “Lestrade, I’ll need your help.”

* * *

Sherlock was encased in silence during the drive to Mycroft’s home. And he remained quiet while he drank his tea with civility. He even changed his clothes without making a fuss. 

By the end of the hour Mycroft was anxious enough to call their parents. Sherlock was perfectly civil. In fact, he was acting like a pale copy of Mycroft, making the older brother wonder if Sherlock had suffered some sort of a breakdown that he wasn’t aware of. 

“I have the guest bedroom prepared for you if you don’t want to return to Baker Street tonight.”

Sherlock gave a distracted shrug. “Not tonight. The press will be too much to handle. And we have to ensure that both Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are secure.”

“Lestrade is at the wharf, overseeing the crime scene. Mrs. Hudson’s whereabouts will be clear to us before the night is over.”

“I expected John would be angry, maybe even disappointed,” Sherlock confessed, his voice delicate as if he were a recovering invalid. “I just never thought he’d be indifferent.”

“He’s not indifferent,” Mycroft countered quickly. “I think he’s exhausted, to tell the truth. He is definitely overwhelmed; probably has been for quite a while.

“Sherlock, the man is incapable of running away from danger. There is a reason why he’s a doctor. And most certainly why he became a soldier. Certain people run away when a bomb explodes. John Watson is the rare sort that runs towards it. His childhood has been riddled with examples of such. His time at Barts was no different. I cannot begin to imagine what you’re thinking, but Sherlock … John …”

“Has recovered from the ordeal I’ve put him through,” Sherlock concluded. “And has come to the realization that our friendship was not worth the price he was forced to pay.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft pleaded.

He raised a hand, as if to ward away Mycroft’s words, and stumbled out of the room.

For a moment Mycroft was reminded of Dr. Watson’s limp, when the man first came into their lives. He wanted to hate the soldier turned doctor, but could not muster enough emotion. Instead, all he felt was a curious sort of numbness.

He poured himself a generous glass of brandy and downed it in one go. Mycroft knew he needed rest, for the days ahead would require that he be in top form.

The phone rang, and though Mycroft wanted to ignore it he couldn’t.

“Mother?” he greeted, not bothering to mask his weariness.

* * *

John reached the expensive and yet non-descript homes on Hampstead. The area was littered with houses that were both terribly pricey and showed none of its wealth at least on the outside. And it looked like Mycroft had done his best to follow suit.

However, John was not there to admire architecture. Both he and Lestrade dashed out of the panda car, and made a beeline for the door. The rest of the Yard was only minutes behind, as Lestrade was forced to muster them while driving.

“Nobody’s intercepting us,” John said. 

“Well, shite,” Lestrade snarled and pulled out his gun.

“You can handle that? I remember Baskerville.”

“Piss off. I’ve been at the range.”

John looked around the building. “I see someone.”

The two men rushed to the figure on the ground. It took John only a glance to know the agent was beyond any medical help.

“Let’s go inside, we haven’t got time,” John hissed out softly and slowly swung a door open as Lestrade began giving out orders to his people through his phone.

* * *

Sherlock was brushing his teeth, taking some relief in the mindless task with getting prepared for bed. So, it took him some time before he realized the quiet that permeated the house was out of ordinary.

He was reaching for the door when it burst open. Splinters of wood flew inwards but Sherlock was able to gracefully step aside. Unfortunately he knew his slippered feet would provide limited protection from the violent onslaught.

Moran’s first blow slammed Sherlock back into the porcelain basin, but because of his height, all it did was knock the breath out of Sherlock and nothing else.

Suddenly, all sense of exhaustion and hopelessness faded. Now, that he was facing Moran, Sherlock had a goal: kill the bastard. It was a dark, ugly fire but the exultation that came with the idea poured heat and strength in his veins.

Sherlock snarled out one name, and it wasn’t Moran’s, imbuing it with a primal sense of loss: _John_.

Many people believed that it was Sherlock who had sheltered John so many years ago by inviting him to Baker Street but the truth was just the opposite.

It was Sherlock who was homeless. Homeless until an injured soldier limped into his life and built a home around Sherlock’s chaos, genius, and selfishness. Set a hearth where Sherlock could thaw out from the coldness of a world terrified by his genius. Created a kitchen where he could be fed without sidelong glances born of curiosity and distrust. And made a bed where he could sleep deeply, knowing he was safe. 

And Moran stole John, Good John, Stalwart John, Honest John, Hot Tempered John, from Sherlock’s world.

Sherlock hadn’t felt such hatred, not even for Moriarty as he felt for the assassin standing in front of him.

He took the blow to his ribs and lunged forward, wrapping his hands around Moran’s thick biceps and slamming him against the tiled walls. He kicked his knee between Moran’s legs, but the assassin had sensed his attack and twisted his hip. With this move, Moran was able to reverse his momentum and lift Sherlock off his feet by just raising his arms.

Sherlock felt the doorjamb punch into his right kidney and was forced to let go. Before he could get another breath, he was kicked right out to the hallway.

Moran gave his cheerful, boyish smile and said, “Don’t bother calling. My men are taking care of your brother and his pretty assistant. Who, by the way, is a bloody pain in the arse!”

It was a flicker in the bathroom mirror that gave Moran the warning. He dodged left, shoving Sherlock in front of him. John pulled the gun to the right at the last second, the bullet missing them both.

Sherlock swirled against the wall, allowing John to take a second shot. But Moran was prepared. He didn’t rush John and instead used the uncapped mouthwash, splashing the alcoholic contents onto John’s face.

Sherlock blinked away the mouthwash burning his eyes, but the attack only halted John for a breath. Moran rushed him, and yet John managed to grab the man’s enormous shoulders. He slammed Moran’s neck right on the door’s ridge. 

Moran snarled and leapt forward, swinging John out of the room. Sherlock took his chance and charged Moran. Unfortunately the assassin was ready for his move. 

The sound of gunfire was unnaturally loud, as it echoed in the narrow hallway. Sherlock felt a hot rush strifing his head before all his strength drained away. 

“John,” he groaned out, his eyesight failing. 

Sherlock lost consciousness before he could hear John’s answer.

* * *

John had seen the blood spray out from Sherlock’s head, and continued to watch in horror as his friend fall onto the floor. The blood continued to ooze from Sherlock’s head, slowly colouring on the parquet floor.

 _Sherlock’s head_.

John lunged forward, and buried his teeth on Moran’s cheek. He felt the flesh give way and snapped his head backwards, taking a chunk of flesh with him. 

Not many people use their teeth, even during a hard fight. But John had been a soldier for nearly two decades, and biting had become an option for him since he ended up in a knife fight trying to save a drunken comrade from equally drunk hooligans.

Moran managed to ignore the pain and slammed his head forward, breaking John’s nose. But that was the only a minor damage for John as he was drowning in adrenaline. He and Moran whirled down the hallway, trading blows. It was John who managed to get the upper hand by punching him through glass doors and into the conservatory.

Moran ignored the slivers of glass embedded into the back of his neck and head. 

“I like this,” he confessed through bloody teeth. “I always wondered what it’d be like: you and me. Soldier to soldier.”

“Let’s find out.”

Moran snap kicked, landing a hard blow to John’s abdomen. In response, John bent forward, grabbing the outstretched leg and twisting it. There was a satisfying crunch as the kneecap popped right out of its socket.

Moran didn’t bother to correct the injury. Instead, he pulled out a hunting knife and lunged sideways. In less than ten seconds John had to relinquish his grip as cuts had torn through his hands and arms; one dangerously close to the brachial artery as the blade had sliced through the elbow joint.

Moran slammed his knee down and around, popping it back into place. He couldn’t use it to kick but the leg would hold him up. 

John knew the damaged arm was now a liability, but he’d trained himself to be ambidextrous. And now he had the physical freedom to take out the .22, the backup from his inner jacket pocket. This time he was going for Moran’s head. 

Moran was well aware and bull charged John, slamming him against a Biedemier table. John’s grip on the gun loosened but he managed to hold onto it even as Moran grabbed it. The two wrestled, furiously trading blows on all their soft spots. John knew he could die from soft tissue trauma alone but he had to get the gun.

The first shot from the .22 tore through the damaged shoulder, which was both a blessing and a curse for John. Because of the amount of damaged tissue, scarring, and metal plating, the bullet ricocheted right out of the shoulder, exiting through the upper arm. The pain, on the other hand, reignited the dormant trauma John had suffered years ago in Afghanistan.

Sensing shock was about to overwhelm his opponent Moran violently twisted his body, his hold on the gun tightening even as he turned. Finally managing to free himself, Moran rapidly fired three shots. The first entered right into John’s right pectoral; the second glancing off of his ribs. The third into his lower abdomen.

John collapsed onto his back, his mouth opening and closing to breathe air that his lungs could no longer afford.

“What a waste,” Moran hissed through clenched teeth. “We understood each other so well.”

John paused as realization crashed through the fog of pain. Suddenly it all made sense. Moran’s wild fighting style, the way he held the gun, and now this halfwit plea.

“You were never a soldier,” John snarled and kicked upwards, shattering Moran’s right wrist.

Moran never suspected that a dying man could have such strength left, but then Moran favoured killing from afar. And he most certainly never met an opponent like John.

The gun dropped to the ground and John took hold of it. The first two bullets embedded themselves into Moran’s lower back. As a doctor, John knew exactly where the spine was, and the .22 was more than enough to shatter it.

“So, how many people did you kill?” Moran asked, his tone conversational even as he watched John struggle to stand up and loom over him. “Because after a certain number I stopped counting.”

“I never started.” John answered. “Because I _am_ a soldier.”

This time John started with the head. And when the gun was emptied, he hunted his pocket for the spare clip. And that he emptied into Moran’s body. John knew he was wasting ammunition, but he was dying. And the last thing he wanted was this monster somehow rising up.

Suddenly, the memory of Sherlock interrupted John’s thoughts.

“Oh God,” he moaned and turned to the door only to have his legs finally fail.

But, as if by miracle, Sherlock appeared in John’s rapidly dwindling vision. His entire face was painted garish by blood, but his eyes were alight and there wasn’t any hesitation as he took in the shattered scenario in front of him.

“John,” Sherlock half bellowed as he came to his knees in front of his friend. “I heard sirens. Help is here. Just stay awake. Please, for me. Just stay awake.”

John wanted to tell Sherlock he was sorry for his behaviour earlier, but that it was necessary. Mycroft had yet to uncover the traitors in his organization, so it was best to let everyone believe John had given up.

That way, he would be the outside man, and could be useful down the line as no one would suspect he would still be interested in Sherlock’s welfare.

But John was tired now, so tired. The only thing he wanted to do was sleep and down an entire pot of tea afterwards. Still, he held onto consciousness because Sherlock looked devastated and there seemed to be actual tears in his eyes.

With the last bit of strength he had left, John dug into his jacket and pulled out his discs. With a small, sweet smile John shoved them into Sherlock’s hands. 

His friend looked down at the gift with wide eyes. Of course Sherlock being Sherlock, he began speaking again, even faster than before. But John was finished. And the darkness wasn’t cold or frightening; it was warm and kind. And its pull possessed a gentleness that had been so absent in John’s life that he succumbed to it without fuss.

* * *

Sherlock blinked rapidly to deal with the various medications applied to his head wound. He wanted nothing more than to snarl at the doctor and find John. But from the numerous agents rushing about the corridor, Sherlock had no doubt Mycroft’s people had taken control of the floor if not the entire wing.

All of which meant he would not be able to take a step outside the room before he was shoved back into the room and probably restrained.

There was a murmur of voices and suddenly Mrs. Hudson came into view.

“You idiot,” she whispered, embracing him. “We were so worried, so worried. I couldn’t sleep since John told me you were back in London.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and gave her a hug. He took in the familiar scent of the ‘herbal soothers’ and Lady Grey tea. 

“I apologize for having caused so much trouble,” he whispered. 

“You can save your apologies later,” Mrs. Hudson said. “First, we need to get you settled and healthy again. I have never seen you so thin, and your hair is ridiculous.”

Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at Mrs. Hudson’s outraged tone. Then, there was a cough. Sherlock opened his eyes and saw Lestrade along with Mycroft who was sporting even more bruises than Sherlock.

“You bastard,” Lestrade said hoarsely. “Bloody hell, Sherlock.”

With those words Lestrade embraced him tightly.

“You started smoking again,” Sherlock noted.

“Since yesterday,” Lestrade said. “And I think I deserve a puff or two after what you and John put me through.”

“We have the triggers,” Mycroft said, sounding almost jubilant. 

“CO 19 was involved,” Lestrade explained. “Of course they had no idea they were dealing with _nuclear_ triggers, but they knew enough not to fuck around.”

Sherlock saw the exhaustion lining the man’s face, the slump of his shoulders and curve of the spine. Surprisingly, he hadn’t gone completely gray. He’d expected the DI would be sporting a helmet silver white hair with all the trouble on his shoulders.

Lestrade leaned back and looked at Sherlock. “You do look ridiculous as ginger.”

Mrs. Hudson rummaged through her purse while Lestrade was talking. Then, with a little sigh, she pulled out an ancient tape recorder. Sherlock identified it as a classic Dictaphone. It even had the wrist strap dangling at the corner.

“John left this for you,” Mrs. Hudson said softly. “He made a new one every month since he found out you were alive. He gave me this one two weeks ago.”

Sherlock greedily took it, only glad to have a new reminder of John alive and probably furious with Sherlock, and not fighting for his life while surgeons swarmed over him.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s caution was all but ignored as Sherlock turned on the Dictaphone.

John’s familiar voice ignited the room, sending its occupants into an emotional turmoil.

“I keep doing this because … well, if things turn out the way they usually do, somebody is going to have to explain why to a whole lot of angry people what the hell just happened. And since Sherlock’s complete shit at it, I guess I have to, and isn’t that the story of my life?

“Why, most of you must be asking. And I can’t really explain except to say I am a simple man. That means I like having a roof over my head, getting paid for my work, having a nice cuppa at the end of the day. And, believe it or not, chasing after the mad berk that is my best friend.

“People always ask me how I can stand Sherlock, and I know they mean well, but the truth is … it’s easy to be around Sherlock. No, not his toxic experiments or the fact that the Checkpoint Charlie between his mouth and brain is completely unmanned. But if you get to know him, really, really spend the time knowing him and not judging Sherlock … then it’s easy to love the bastard.

“Because, honestly, how many of us would look good if we’re under the microscope like he is?”

A puff of sigh signaled to the listeners of John’s exasperation.

“So, the following are the reasons for my actions.

“I believe in Queen and Country. And I have proven my loyalty for almost two decades and paid a heavy price, but I will never, ever, say it wasn’t worth it. I have met some of the best people I’ll ever have the privilege to call comrades, and they believe in this as much as I do.

“I believe that Lestrade and his people are doing their best. God knows they could use more help. But I’ve seen them working tirelessly so I can honestly say they're doing all they can.”

There was a soft laughter before John continued. “I also believe Mrs. Hudson is not our housekeeper. Really, I do, Mrs. Hudson, no matter how we behave.

“Finally and most importantly: I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in his genius, his incredible drive, and his love of knowledge. Yes, he can be a mad bastard, but he was and is my best friend and damn anyone who claims he doesn’t have a heart. 

“But, yes … well, I am a simple man. And I’ve been taught by my betters that to uphold a good man, you’d go to war. For an honest man: defend with all that you’ve got. But for your best friend? For a man who is your best friend, who is honest and good: well, you’d die for such a man.”

“So, in conclusion, I believe in Sherlock Holmes whom I have the singular honour of calling friend. Thank you, Sherlock, for everything. For giving me a chance all those years ago when we met at Barts. I returned to London, but it was you who … who led me home. So, it’s only right that I do the same for you.

“And that is why I have chosen this hard road. 

“God Speed and good luck.”

There was no noise after John’s voice stopped. Not even a single gasp of sorrow or regret.

There was grief so powerful and all consuming that when it leveled the human heart, nothing could possibly escape the body. Not even a single breath. And the human soul so crippled by vicious attack it couldn’t take notice of its heart and lungs coming to a complete still.

Save for the eyes. Tears somehow escape grief’s reign. And many slid down Sherlock’s face as John’s tags sang softly in his trembling grasp. 

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an aftermath addition, but I didn't want to cram all and sundry into Dulce Bellum Inexpertis.
> 
> Also, I've always thought Tom Hardy would have made an excellent Moran. He has that psychotic, violent playfulness that's both charming and terrifying. Usually at the same time.


End file.
